My sister Phyllis and I used to pack our suitcases and head to the beach for the weekend. Those were the days before husbands and babies, and even boyfriends. At the beach we lingered over hamburgers or pancakes at Mammy's Kitchen, baked in the sun with no thought of our skin one day being sixty years old, and walked for hours to the pier and back, sidestepping tides and picking up shells.
Most of those memories are buried underneath a tall stack of years, but one trip peaks over the top, not because of something that happened at the beach, but because of the nerve-racking start.
In preparation for the aforementioned journey, Phyllis and I filled our travel bags with swimsuits, Coppertone lotion and flip flops. Then we loaded her sage green Chevelle and drove away; her behind the wheel and me in the passenger seat; our sights on Myrtle Beach four hours away.
We headed east on Brompton Drive, then turned left at the stop sign. A few seconds later, Phyllis noticed a flashing blue light in the rear view mirror, flagging us down.
Neither of us could imagine the infraction that warranted the police's attention, for then as well as now, there are no citizens on Planet Earth more law-abiding than my sister and me. I knew that she had given all of the proper turn signals and adhered to the speed limit, and the fact that we were being pulled over by the law stumped both of us.
In respectful obedience, Phyllis slowed down and pulled onto the shoulder of West Market Street. We sat there in the car, barely a mile from our apartment, dumfounded. As the uniformed policeman exited his cruiser and approached the driver's side, Phyllis rolled down the window. Then, in a scene befitting Lucy Ricardo and Ethel Mertz, the officer said, "Miss, there's a suitcase on top of your car."
In morbid embarrassment, my sister and I muffled our laughter as the policeman reached for the culprit and slid it onto the back seat. We thanked the young man for saving my blue Samsonite from bouncing across West Market Street, and when the flashing blue light had faded into the miles behind us, we laughed all the way to Mammy's kitchen.
Published in The Goochland Gazette July 14, 2022.